


Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-13 21:25:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13579230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Was it incompetence? Ambivalence? Dedication? Fate?





	Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/gifts).



Her head ached, it ached sharply and she couldn’t think that she had wept enough tears over the dying man to make it so. She had cried for many hours when Gustav died and she hadn’t felt like this, the pain heavy upon her and only the faintest taste of salt in her mouth. She tried to open her eyes—it was a struggle and she heard his voice before she saw him, heard it soft and harsh in one.

“Mary, Mary, Mary…God! Mary, look at me, come on now, open your eyes, Mary—dear God, let her, let her…”

“Let me what?” she said. He sounded desperate and she wanted to stop that, even though her head hurt so much, but it was only a whisper she’d managed, the few words slurred and ended with a gasp at the first touch of light to her face.

“Wake. Only this, that you’re awake,” Jed replied, making his tone steady; she recognized it from a hundred bedside conversations. His face was pale, paler than she recalled it being even when he’d been ill from the needle and it was not across from her as it had been when they sat by the deserter’s bed. It was above hers, not very far, and against her cheek was his uniform’s jacket, the wool rough. The gold epaulet was dull and she blinked, to try and clear her vision, wincing at what the small gesture cost her.

“What hurts most?” he asked before she could think to utter a word of reassurance. Or a question of her own, though she felt them marshalling within her mind, unruly as new recruits, their boots striking the earth, each a new pang behind her eyes, a strike at the base of her skull.

“My head, most dreadfully,” she admitted. 

“And where else? Does it hurt to breathe?” he went on, pressing very gently where her stays were, making her gasp without any pleasure. 

“Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry! Only, I must find out how badly you’re injured,” he said. The hand that had hurt her now brushed across her cheek, stroking her tenderly. She couldn’t think what had happened, what could have brought them so close when he had been more than an arm’s length from her, just the look in his dark eyes speaking of the intimacy between them. Now, those eyes were fearful, searching her face, and she became aware of the tension in his jaw. Felt it in the arms that she realized held her as a lover would. 

“What’s happened? I don’t understand,” she said.

“I don’t know. There was a tremendous noise and then blackness. And then, I found you beside me and you didn’t respond. Not for a very long time,” he answered. He didn’t sound like an experienced physician; he sounded bewildered, worried, that hint of curiosity he could never quite dismiss still faintly present, a desperation she’d not heard before coloring every word. The way he said _you_ was similar to what she now recalled of their earlier conversation “You did all you could,” yet held something new, some indefinable sense of being cherished and feared lost. How he’d been saying her name when she opened her eyes, as if it were the only word left.

“Where are we?” She tried to stir, to sit up, but the pain that had been dreadful became unbearable and she fell back against him.

“Stay still, my—Mary, try not to move,” he interrupted. “Except for what I tell you, just be still and quiet. We’re safe enough, if someone comes soon,” he added, glancing away from her face. She looked where he did, saw her skirts a jumbled, dirtied mess, a nearly incomprehensible architecture of twisted metal and beams-- was that a sill? was that jagged monstrosity a bedframe? Dust was hung thick in the air, lit in the highest part of the room.

“Has it been long? And you—Jed, are you hurt?” she said, finally seeing the smallest smile on his face with her last words.

“Ever the Head Nurse! I’m well enough, my uniform is a sturdier make than your calico dress and I missed knocking my head as you did,” he replied. He was lying, that she could tell, but he was well enough to lie and that she took comfort in.

“I don’t know how long it’s been. Hours at least, but the sun is still out. I think we’re better off waiting here than trying to shift much. Mary—tell me, can you move your legs? Or does it hurt too much?” She thought he must wish she could be off him and she strained to bend her knee, to lift her foot in its boot. She couldn’t tell what she did, dizzy with the effort, feeling bile rise in her throat and her vision dim; she couldn’t tell if her leaden flesh could even tremble but she did feel cold.

“I’m, I’m trying but it’s hard…hurts, sorry I’m a trouble,” she murmured. His arms tightened around her but with great care and his face came closer, so she could see him clearly even though the room seemed darker. 

“You’re not a trouble. You’re never that, not now, not ever, you’re the dearest,” he began, breaking off, his voice choked. He paused, spoke again, “You’re so very dear, dear to me, though perhaps I shouldn’t say it, but I will. I will have it said, so you know…if no one comes, at least you’ll know, that I couldn’t want anything other than this, to be here with you.”

She thought he might lean over to kiss her and that she would let him. That she would take his kiss and give her own, though her head throbbed and each breath was a little harder. He didn’t bend towards her but sat back and ran his fingers along her brow; she saw the blood as a new darkness on his skin, saw the darkness in his eyes as he gazed down at her, his lips moving in a silent, ardent prayer.

The simple explanation: a bomb had gone off. 

And the world was blown apart.

**Author's Note:**

> I was searching for a way to write Mary and Jed sequestered alone somewhere and it occurred to me that they were together and mostly alone indoors when Frank Stringfellow was foiling his own bombing and that it would be interesting to consider what might happen if he had failed.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson. For the record, I don't imagine this bombing kills Lincoln but I'm not officially weighing in on any of the destinies of the other Mercy Street characters... (okay, it doesn't kill Samuel.)


End file.
